Thursday

[D.H Skogen] Blow out the candles. Tonight I don't want any light wasted Film Americana fills my mouth but even light doesn't taste good That's why MC's spit out Faced with [?] complacence we turn away to rinse with act still this selfish plague lingers Like twelve years of drum disease Mix black, white, New Orleans, New York and gargle twice daily, drops of art's saline Everything's gone blurry What we saw clearly in the womb most won't know at thirty It's a Thursday and I sit at home worried of soul hygiene Like nat used all the training Visine Defining literally what to be a mic fiend We smoke away our pipe dreams Yellow teeth decay and fallout, we stay all out, and always, all out, wondering what hell this hole crawled out And touch the sky's mouth with this thing these songs house We till the earth with dark clouds 'till the earth's scars heal We resurrect the stars [?] Pierce the night with large howls We peace white walls with shit like revolution right now Square off with sons of darkness in night rounds We circle daughters of light wearing bright crowns I'm like, bound to free death Might drown in these breaths Mics crowd and need rest I frown and detest white power and regress to beat laid down for these heads And this mic ain't going now where Till I bush my teeth where justice leaks and trust my beats to put me down for another night Blow out the candles, and get some rest